


Bright Shining

by hostilovi



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, Alternate Universe - Space, Developing Relationship, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-12
Updated: 2016-03-12
Packaged: 2018-05-26 06:58:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,767
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6228415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hostilovi/pseuds/hostilovi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He was twelve when he heard Takao’s voice for the first time, although he still did not know him as Takao. Midorima’s lips said Scavenger and his heart said friend. It was important to him because the only person he called friend was Atsushi, and he worried sometimes it would only ever be the two of them against the world.</p>
<p>He was twelve when, ever so briefly, his entire world crumbled.</p>
<p>(Companion piece to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/4195899/chapters/9478083">First Star I See</a>)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bright Shining

**Author's Note:**

> This can be read as a standalone, but will likely make MUCH MORE SENSE if you've read First Star I See first. If you want all the world-building and knowledge of certain events, please go read that first!

He was seven years old when he gave up his dream of being a medic.

Murasakibara from down the street laughed when he told him, saying they were too young for dreams. But he offered Midorima some of the snacks he seemed to always have shoved in his pockets.

Maybe he was too young, but he had always had certain ideas about how the world worked. The way Midorima had seen it, he fit in—like his parents—as a medic. He wanted to help people. Fix them, make them better.

“We can’t help that one, Shintarou,” his father had said calmly when he anxiously pointed out the young boy huddled near the steps of the hospital.

“But you have to,” young Midorima replied, astounded at the way his eyes slid right past the boy even though he was so clearly sick and suffering. “He’s sick.”

“If you can’t pay, Shintarou, you don’t get treated.”

It was a new idea, what his father said, and it disrupted the way Midorima had neatly organized the world around him in a way that made him very uncomfortable.

“What if it was me?” he asked. “What if I couldn’t pay and I was sick, would I have to stay outside too?”

His father hushed him, said he shouldn’t ask such questions.

Midorima’s world was unbalanced, and it had a little to do with how his father refused to speak to him after he was caught stealing a medkit for the boy—he got away with it and resolved to never forget the gratitude on the boy’s face, but the security detail caught him after; it had a little to do with how his mother stopped calling him promising and talented after that.

Mostly it had to do with the idea that the only people medics helped were the ones who could afford to be helped.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Midorima was nearly nine when he discovered the underbelly of the ‘net and the intricacies of technology.

He suspected his father had never truly forgiven him, so he spent more time in his room studying or going out to the Murasakibara’s house. It was easy to fit in there, even though his hair was green and not purple, and no one questioned why he was there—least of all, Atsushi. One of his older sisters talked about things like coding that was different than what he had learned in school. Atsushi later showed him—with the promise to buy him candy the next day—what his sister was talking about. Long formulas, strings of numbers and characters that you could manipulate to break down or create.

Midorima decided that was the most interesting thing he had ever seen and that he wanted to learn all of it.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

He was ten when he first came across The Scavenger’s handiwork.

By then, Midorima had more than gone past the level of any book or lesson he can find; he once ventured a question to Atsushi’s sister to be met only with a blank stare.

He was ten when he realized maybe he was not quite the same as other people.

Atsushi, too, with his perpetually growing body, and sharp but childish mind, was not quite the same. Midorima was selfishly thankful for his friendship.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Are you done yet?”

“Not yet.”

“You’ve been at it for hours,” Atsushi whined, drawing out the last word with childish petulance. “I’m hungry.”

“You’re always hungry,” Midorima pointed out, pausing to push up his glasses before they could fall from their precarious perch on his nose. Atsushi pouted a little, but his eyes were intent on him.

“So? Take a break, Mido-chin.”

Midorima looked back at the mess of code sprawled out across the three screens he had rigged up across Atsushi’s cramped desk.

“Not yet,” he said firmly. “I’ve almost got this.”

Atsushi sighed and groused under his breath, but he got up from his supine position on the bed and crouched beside Midorima, squinting at the code.

Midorima had found the virus while doing a scan of a local business, curious about their security measures and what new things he might discover. Only it wasn’t a virus, per se, but more of a leech, feeding off the ‘net lines. It was either small enough to pass beneath their notice or they simply weren’t good enough to catch it.

Midorima believed in respecting his elders, but he had been finding, more and more, that he was a lot smarter than them. He didn’t think most people were smart enough to catch the leech.

“I can’t trace it,” Midorima admitted, flushing red. He had never had that happen to him before. It was frustrating.

“So take it apart.” Atsushi pointed a finger at a small piece of code. “Try pulling there.”

“I know where to pull.”

Midorima typed in a few lines and watched with a sense of satisfaction as the leech slowly imploded on itself. Not before he could catch the tag that was hanging on the tail end of the code. The Scavenger, it said.

Atsushi nodded, satisfied. “Let’s go. I wanna go buy some snacks.” He headed towards the door before Midorima could argue, already clomping down the stairs by the time Midorima caught up to him.

The Scavenger.

“They’re good at programming, whoever they are,” Midorima said once they were safely outside.

“I guess.”

He caught Atsushi’s hand, pulling him back before he could move into the line of shuttle traffic. The bigger boy sighed, but stuck closer to Midorima after that with a mumbled ‘thanks’.

“But they’re using it for something illegal. We should report it.”

“Eh,” Atsushi said. “Don’t wanna. ‘sides, if you report them, you won’t get a chance to try and trace them again, right?”

Midorima considered that for the whole walk to the convenience store.

“You’re right.”

“I’m always right,” Atsushi said with a hint of pride. Midorima rolled his eyes, but let the comment slide, picking out a drink while his friend wandered up and down the snack aisles, slowly picking out a feast.

He was right this time. More than that, he knew Midorima was itching to find this person, this person who could slide so easily under the notice of other adults with a clever bit of code and nothing else.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Now that he knew what he was looking for, the Scavenger’s handiwork was easy enough to find. There were more leeches on local businesses, actual viruses, huge unwieldly chunks of code that Midorima couldn’t fathom the purpose for. One time he caught the Scavenger in motion, sending a tiny, vicious line to what Midorima thought was the bank.

The news the next morning talked about lost revenue that no one could figure where it had gone. Midorima knew. He kept his mouth shut while his parent’s complained about dishonorable thieves and the lack of security.

Every day, on lunch breaks from school and when he went home with Atsushi, Midorima dedicated himself to destroying all the leeches he found, and of carefully unraveling their viruses from the ‘net lines. Sometimes he couldn’t manage alone and would have the con Atsushi into helping him figure it out.

He took to leaving a tag of his own behind, so the Scavenger would know he was on their trail. The Hunter. It felt just dramatic enough to get the point across.

It felt like a game, and it was the most fun Midorima could remember having outside the basketball court.

Then the Scavenger started leaving notes behind. At first they seemed angry, but then they devolved into witty, one-sided banter.

One-sided because Midorima refused to join in. This wasn’t a game to him, no matter what Atsushi said—it was serious. The Scavenger was breaking the law and he intended to be the one who brought him to justice.

Another year passed. His eyes got worse.

He still couldn’t track down the Scavenger.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

He was twelve when he heard Takao’s voice for the first time, although he still did not know him as Takao. Midorima’s lips said Scavenger and his heart said friend. It was important to him because the only person he called friend was Atsushi, and he worried sometimes it would only ever be the two of them against the world.

He was twelve when, ever so briefly, his entire world crumbled.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

He sat on the bench, waiting for his sister’s school shuttle to arrive. He divided his attention between the datapad in his hands and the street, although his eyes were mostly on the code he was trying to unravel. Slowly but surely, he was getting better at this. It gave him the same sense of satisfaction of when his basketball slid nearly soundlessly through the net, his arc a graceful line that traveled higher than even Atsushi could reach.

Midorima’s glasses slid down his nose and he pushed them up before they could fall.

His parents had been talking about getting his eyes fixed. Surgery. Midorima was disturbed by the idea. He liked having his glasses—he liked the physical barrier between him and the rest of the world that let him observe clearly and react as needed.

“Shintarou!”

He turned off the datapad and slid it into his backpack, standing as his sister ran up to him with a bright grin.

“Let’s go home.” He dutifully offered her his hand, which she happily took and started chattering on about her day. Midorima listened as attentively as he could, offering a few comments when it seemed appropriate, but he mostly just let her talk. When they got home, it was expected that they be quiet and well-mannered, but for now they could just  _be._

“Oh, Shintarou, look!” There was a display across the road for the pet store. “There’s kittens! Can we go look? Please?”

“We’re supposed to go straight home.”

“It’ll only take a minute! Please, please?”

From her smile she already knew he would relent. With a sigh, Midorima grudgingly nodded. Her hand slipped from his grasp as she darted ahead to race across the street before the light could change. He rolled his eyes at her eagerness even as a smile tugged on his lips.

He saw it happen before he heard it.

Saw the shuttle go careening through the stop light. Saw it smash into his sister, saw her go flying and crumple like a broken toy.

He heard the horrible crunch. He didn’t think she was conscious to scream, but someone was yelling.

He ran, unmindful of the light, darted around the shuttle that had struck her to get to her side. There were already bruises, already blood streaming from her head. Her right arm was crushed like a crumpled ball of paper, flat and misshapen. Sharp white bits of bone pierced through her skin, revealing the deep red muscle in wide gapes. Midorima gagged on bile, hands shaking as he dared not touch her but hovered over her face.

A pulse. He needed to check for a pulse.

Still shaking he pressed two fingers to her neck.

Faint, but it was there. His glasses were sliding down. He pushed them back up, smearing blood on the lenses.

“An ambulance,” he croaked out hoarsely, finally looking up at the crowd that had gathered. “Someone call an ambulance.”

The ambulance arrived shortly, sirens blaring, lights flashing. The whole ride, Midorima held tight to her unbroken hand, staring mindlessly at her pale face and willing her to live. He could hear the EMT’s talking, heard them make a call to his parents. None of that mattered. The only thing that mattered was his sister.

They could pay. She could be saved.

This time he couldn’t hold back the vomit, expelling it all over his shoes. He noticed, while his head was hanging, the tear in his new uniform pants.

His parents would be furious.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

If he had held onto her hand a little tighter, maybe this wouldn’t have happened. If he had insisted they go straight home, like they ought to have, maybe this wouldn’t have happened. If he had done something other than stand there and watch—

That thought haunted him the whole time he and his parents sat, tense and unmoving, unspeaking, in the waiting room of the hospital. His mother was crying softly into his father’s shoulder while he stared unblinkingly ahead.

A surgeon finally emerged, hours later.

“She’s stable,” he said, obviously exhausted. “But we had to amputate her arm.”

Midorima gagged again, remembering the state of it. Neither of his parents spared him a glance and he felt terribly alone, vulnerable under the hospital lights that showed the vomit and the blood and the dirt in sharp relief against his skin and clothes.

“If you like, you can see her now.”

They rose as one.

She was barely awake, barely coherent. Midorima stood back while his parents converged on her with tearful apologies and promises that everything was going to be fine, just fine. He observed the bandages and bruises and abrasions, the cold machines standing guard around her bed.

A doctor came in, prattled on about options and adjustments to them, and while his parents were distracted, Midorima slipped away.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

They nearly made him return the kitten until they saw how thrilled she was with it; they grounded him for a week anyway.

She named it Shin-chan and he cried all the tears he had been holding back.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

_Call me._

The tag was simple, short. He had no doubt that the Scavenger could manage such a feat while remaining untraceable but for once the idea didn’t irk him. Midorima put his head down while he waited, heart in his throat.

His computer chimed with an alert. Midorima looked up long enough to see the unknown caller scroll across his screen before practically slamming the answer key. The video on the screen was black, not that he had been really expecting a video call.

“So, Hunter,” he said. “We meet at long last, huh?”

“Scavenger,” Midorima said tightly.

The other boy—and indeed, his voice was young, just as young as his own—laughed and laughed. “You sound just like your tags! So serious!”

And he sounded just as clever and reckless as his, but Midorima wasn’t about to say that. In any case, he had more pressing concerns.

“I need help,” he said abruptly, hating that he had to do this. But any price was worth the future of his little sister.

“Oh? For what, pulling that stick out of—”

“It’s my sister.”

Takao fell silent, joviality gone in an instant.

“Tell me.”

“She lost her arm.” Midorima let his eyes close, taking steady breaths and trying not to let the memories overtake him. “We can’t afford a replacement.”

“Neither can millions of people.”

“She needs an arm, she—” he struggled to find the right words. “She can’t play piano with one hand.”

“So you’re coming to me because…” the Scavenger trailed off cautiously. When Midorima didn’t speak, he continued with a sigh. “You want me to help you get the money.”

“Yes.”

“You realize there’s basically no reason for me to help you, right? I mean, you’re the guy who’s apparently hellbent on destroying my work.”

The only argument Midorima had was  _it’s my sister,_  so he held his tongue and waited. If the Scavenger wouldn’t help him, the chances he could pull this off was slim to none.

“How old is she?” he asked.

“Nine.”

“What about you?”

“Twelve, but I don’t see why—”

“I’m twelve too. And my little sister is eight.”

Midorima listened to the sound of the other boy breathing, wondering what he looked like, wondering about his family and where he lived. Somewhere close by, surely. Maybe they had passed by each other, ships in the night. “You you’ll help me.”

“Yeah,” he said, “I’m gonna help you.”

His parents never did find out who the ‘charitable donor’ was who paid for the prosthetic—top-of-the-line, the best available, the kind that she could replace parts as needed as she grew. Midorima felt justified when he listened to the sounds of her playing echo through the house again, but never did manage to rid himself of the guilt either.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 The Scavenger called him after a few days. He had called it his price—to be able to call Midorima every so often. To talk, or so he claimed.

Midorima let him chatter on and on, adding the bare minimum to the conversation. But the second time he called, he talked about coding and Midorima couldn’t not talk. Here was someone with as much interest in it as he had, someone on his level. Atsushi was, but he didn’t like to talk like this. He buried his passion while the Scavenger threw it out for the whole world to see.

They slowly admitted things to each other. Midorima took the information piece by piece, trying to build an image of his mysterious, overly familiar nemesis.

As time passed, the calls only got more frequent. Midorima found himself checking the horoscope rankings for the Scavenger. Scorpio. And every time he heard his sister practicing, he thought of him. How he would never be able to repay such a debt.

The Scavenger asked for his direct call line. Midorima, knowing he could hack into his computer and find it if he really wanted to, grudgingly gave it, and was from then on barraged with daily messages from him.

He tried, several times to hack into the Scavenger’s end of things.

Each time he got close, he found a reason to back off.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 He was fifteen when he first saw his face.

“Why must you insist on doing everything illegally?” Midorima snapped out as he pulled one of the Scavenger’s leeches loose while they were talking. The Scavenger laughed, sounding slightly breathless.

“Why must you insist on being a stick in the mud? I’m not hurting anyone.”

“You’re stealing.”

“Only from the bad guys. You know how shady that company is?” Already, Midorima could see the shape of something new the Scavenger was creating and let out a frustrated noise, tapping away at his keys to make it vanish.

“You can’t know for sure—”

“But I do, Hunter. Besides, you get that what you’re doing right now is illegal too, right? Your ‘net trails are connected to mine. If I ever get busted, so do you.”

While Midorima spluttered, the Scavenger burst out laughing.

“I’ve got a confession, Hunter,” the Scavenger said once he finally stopped laughing.

“What’s that?”

“I want to meet you,” was what the Scavenger said. “Really meet you. In person.”

Midorima’s mind went perfectly blank.

“I,” he croaked out, “don’t even know your name.”

“It’s Takao.”

“Takao.”

“Jeez, don’t say it like that! Now you’re making me feel weird.”

“I’m saying it normally.”

“Yeah, yeah. What about you, what’s your name?” He said it casually, but Midorima could hear the fragility in his tone. Hope. Fear. He had exposed more about himself by giving up his name than he had in a long time.

“Midorima,” he said, before he could think better of it.

“Midorima, huh.”

They were both silent.

“Is that a no?”

“You never asked me a question.”

Takao laughed again and the sound of it eased the tension between them. “Forgive me, Mr. Prim and Proper! Will you meet with me, Midorima?”

There was only one answer he could give.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Midorima hurried out of the house on the appointed date, spouting off a lie about going to Atsushi’s when his father questioned his rush to leave. He tried to forget the thin line his father’s mouth had pressed into before turning wordlessly away.

Today was the day he would see Takao.

Each time he thought about him in that way—Takao, instead of Scavenger—it gave him a thrill.

He kept checking the time the whole way there, not wanting to be late. His horoscope had been good today, but he couldn’t be too careful. They were to meet at a local café. At least, it was local for Midorima. He wondered, not for the first time, where Takao lived. Somewhere close, somewhere far?

The café came into view. Midorima’s heart was pounding. They were supposed to meet outside despite the chill in the air. His eyes roved over the empty tables until he came to the only occupied one.

He was thin, black-haired and tense where he sat. His eyes went to Midorima at once and they locked gazes.

“Takao,” he mouthed in question. That sharp face split in a slow, wide grin, making him look younger and—something else. Midorima’s heart felt uncomfortably large in his chest, which was the most ridiculous feeling he had ever had the misfortune to experience.

His feet carried him to his table and he sat across from Takao. His eyes were grey, more piercing than any eyes he had ever seen. They seemed to see right to the core of him.

_Ridiculous._

Midorima looked away, adjusting his glasses.

“Tell me about yourself,” Takao said abruptly. “Tell me about your life.”

Midorima nearly stood up and ran. It wasn’t too late to escape this mistake. Instead his mouth opened.

“There’s nothing to tell.”

Takao laughed. The sound was even warmer in person, coming right from the heart, unabashedly genuine and loud. Midorima bristled silently where he sat, hands folded tight in his lap.

“Come on now, Midorima. I know that’s not true. Everybody has a story.”

“What about you?”

Takao sighed, propping his chin up in one hand. “I have a little sister. Just like you, remember?”

Midorima swallowed hard, remembering that panicked night from years ago. But Takao was continuing on.

“I like basketball and I like coding. My favorite food is kimchi. I’m a Scorpio. Well, I guess you already knew some of that. Your turn, now.”

“Basketball is a fine game,” he stated stiffly.

“All right! There’s a start,” he said with a cheery smile. Encouraging, rather than mocking. Midorima still couldn’t relax. “How is your sister, by the way? You never talk about her.”

“She’s progressing well.”

“Her arm?”

“A perfect fit.”

They were both quiet for a while. The waitress came and took their order—strawberry shortcake for Takao, a small sandwich for Midorima—and left.

“It’s strange. I feel like I know you already, but I know hardly anything about you.”

“You know my name.” And now what he looked like. This was a mistake, he’d be able to find him now, really find him. This was breaking all the rules of their tenuous and secretive friendship.

“Kazunari.”

Takao looked down and away from him for the first time.

“Excuse me?”

“Well, I know you wouldn’t tell me your first name unless I told you first. Mine’s Kazunari. Takao Kazunari.”

He opened his mouth to make some kind of excuse, something that would let him leave once and for all while somehow not ruining what they had between them.

There was nothing. No way out.

“Midorima Shintarou,” he said, cursing himself. But Takao looked up with a smile that was almost shy and that made him feel—strange. Safe. Like they were just sharing secrets in the dark again.

“Shintarou, huh? Shintarou, Shintarou…Shin-chan,” he decided with a laugh. “That’s what I’ll call you.”

Midorima frowned, thinking of his sister’s cat. “That’s unnecessary.”

“Lighten up, Shin-chan.”

The waitress returned with their food, and Takao took over the conversation like he usually did, expounding some of his recent escapades, complete with grand arm gestures.

Midorima slowly relaxed.

This wasn’t so bad.

Takao was everything he had expected, yet somehow more. His personality was larger than life, boisterous to the extreme. He was as witty and sharp-tongued as his tags, only now Midorima could see the crooked smiles and glinting eyes that went along with the comments, the way he chewed on his lip when he was thinking.

He didn’t realize how much time had passed until Takao asked if he wanted to go for dinner together.

“I should return home. My parents—”

“Yeah, okay. I get it.” He stood, shuffling his feet a bit awkwardly. “Look it was great to meet you. Really. And I’d like to see you again.”

“Fine.”

“I mean, it’s my birthday soon, so if I have to con you into it, so be it, but—”

“I said fine.”

Takao blinked, then his face broke out in the widest smile yet.

“Yeah. Okay.” He laughed. “Then I’ll see you around, Shin-chan. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t.”

“What wouldn’t you do,” he retorted coolly, and he was rewarded with yet another laugh as he walked away.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

He was fifteen when he signed on to the Starfleet.

It wasn’t a decision he had made lightly. He talked it over with Atsushi for days before he started filling out the extensive forms. Atsushi didn’t understand his reservations; he had been planning on joining the Fleet for years. There was little enough for him to do here on their home planet, and he had mentioned a few times, that his family could be suffocating.

It gave Midorima a new perspective on his best friend. Usually he viewed him as a spoiled kid who needed protecting, but the confident way he declared that he was leaving their world behind spoke volumes as to what was underneath his dull façade.

Midorima perhaps should have known better.

They shared snacks while they filled out the forms together. Midorima swore that Atsushi was happy to have him along, swore he caught him smiling a few times.

“Absolutely not,” his father said when he presented the idea over dinner. “You’re going to university to be a medic.”

“I’m not.”

“Dear, listen to your father—”

“I’ve already filled out all the appropriate forms.” All he needed was their signature to sign off on it, and he wasn’t above forging it at this point. Midorima proceeded to lay out his argument, coldly dismissing his father’s attempts to talk over him and his mother’s attempts to sway him. His only regret was that his sister had to witness the overly loud discussion, the only quiet one at the table.

They agreed, angrily.

It was enough that they agreed. Midorima was long used to their anger.

Midorima felt alive with possibilities. Starfleet was sure to have other people as good at coding as he was—maybe better. He could become anything he wanted to be, fight for the good of humanity.

His only regret would be Takao, and perhaps leaving his sister.

Takao called that night, as he did nearly every night. Midorima listened to him talk, barely saying anything himself. He was still warm from their first ever meeting, still suffused with the bright reality of their friendship.

“Did something happen?” Takao asked suddenly in the midst of one of his stories.

“Nothing.”

“You seem off.”

“It’s nothing important.” Midorima hesitated, the truth on the tip of his tongue. “I had an argument with my parents. That’s all.”

“Sucks,” Takao commiserated. He had never mentioned his family aside from his sister. Maybe he had none, or maybe they weren’t on good terms. Midorima didn’t know. There was still so much he didn’t know—that he wanted to know.

 “I was thinking,” Takao went on, “we could meet up again next week. Play some basketball or something.”

Midorima’s chest was tight. He hadn’t realized before now how much he didn’t want to lose Takao. “I’ll be gone next week,” was all he could say.

“All right, the week after that, then. Or whenever you get back.”

“I won’t be coming back.”

Silence. Once he couldn’t stand how chatty he was, but now he feared silence from the other boy.

“What does that mean, Shin-chan?” he asked lightly.

“I’m joining the Fleet. I leave for the training school next week.”

“The Fleet? You? Shin-chan, you know what a waste that is for you? You and me, we could break out on our own—”

“And do what, Takao? Become leaders in the blackmarket? That’s not the life I want.”

“No, you gave up the life you wanted when you were seven.”

“Don’t,” Midorima warned.

Takao sighed, and Midorima could imagine him running a frustrated hand through his black hair. “What are you going to do in the Fleet?”

“I’ll join Research. They could use a person of my skills.”

“Yeah,” Takao said bitterly. “They could.”

_Come with me_ , Midorima wanted to say, but that was too close to begging.

“Atsushi is coming too,” he said instead.

“Of course. Couldn’t leave the big guy behind.”

_Come with me_.

It wasn’t possible. The background checks that the Starfleet ran were extensive and Takao would never pass. Midorima didn’t think even he could hide all his illicit activities good enough from them.

“So I guess this is goodbye,” Takao said, suddenly back to his usual cheery tone. It sounded a bit forced, but Midorima appreciated his effort to reestablish normalcy between them. It was safe, it was good. He’d be lonely without it.

“Yes.”

“Knock ‘em dead, Shin-chan.”

“That’s a ridiculous phrase.”

Takao laughed. Midorima thought he heard him sniff. His own eyes were wet with frustrated, unshed tears he had no explanation for.

“Well, just…stay safe out there.” Those words were more vulnerable, more soft than anything that they had said to each other before. Midorima swallowed hard and nodded even though Takao couldn’t see.

“I will,” he promised, and the call disconnected.

_Come with me_ , he whispered to his bedroom walls that night, hands fisted tight enough that his bones creaked under the strain, knowing it did no good. His little sister slipped in his room near midnight, claiming a nightmare, and Midorima let her sleep beside him without argument, thankful for the company.

Everything was changing. Everything would change.

He thought he had been ready.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The week went by in a whirl of activity. Midorima hadn’t thought he had owned so many things until he went to pack and found himself at a loss. He didn’t have space for the lucky items he had collected throughout the years. There would be no way to procure new ones either. The thought was unnerving.

He envied Atsushi’s apparent indifference to bringing along personal items.

But eventually everything was packed. Everything was signed and set.

He was really leaving.

 He hadn’t always dreamed of the stars, but he now stared at the heavens, wondering what he would find out there. Something grand and wonderful? Something terrible?

If the stars had any answers, they weren’t telling.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Atsushi, wait.” He grabbed his hand out of habit, pulling him to a halt before he could walk straight into the passing officers in their pitch black, crisp uniforms. The bigger boy mumbled something under his breath, but his fingers curled tight around his briefly before letting go.

He felt safer for it, knowing Atsushi was as nervous as he was.

“Where are we going?” he complained, on the edge of petulance. Neither of them had gotten much sleep. They both stood head and shoulders above most of the other prospective trainees, garnering as many awed glances as they did dirty looks.

“The far gate.” Midorima pointed.

“Shin-chan!”

That voice could belong to only one person. Indeed, it was Takao who came rushing out of the crowd towards them, a brilliant, lopsided smile on his face. Midorima’s heart kicked into high gear as he looked quickly around for the nearest officers to make sure they weren’t paying close attention.

“Takao,” he hissed, grabbing his shoulder and pulling him into Atsushi’s shadow. As if recognizing the importance of the moment, Atsushi held still even when the crowd bumped around them. “What are you doing?”

“Oh, c’mon, I thought you’d be happy to see me.”

“Happy? What if they see you? You’re as good as dead if they find out who you are—”

“Gods, I should hope not,” he laughed, pulling out a datapad from his pocket and shoving it under Midorima’s nose. “Considering I’m on the next flight out to training school.”

Midorima stared at the words but they didn’t make any more sense the longer he looked at them. Takao was still smiling when their gazes met over the glowing screen of the datapad, but it had gentled.

“I’m coming with you,” he clarified when Midorima couldn’t find any words.

“Takao.” He licked his lips, swallowed. His heart was still beating unreasonably fast. “How?”

He shook his head. “It’s not important.”

“It is.”

“Well, okay, maybe.” He dropped the datapad back into his pocket and patted Midorima’s hand. Suddenly aware that he had been holding Takao the whole time, Midorima dropped his arm safely back to his side. “But can we save this conversation for later? I haven’t even checked in—”

“Takao!” Midorima snapped out, grabbing his arm with one hand and Atsushi’s with the other. “You were supposed to check in an hour ago, what were you thinking!”

He dragged them both along to the checkpoint, ignoring Takao’s excuses and Atsushi’s whining that they had almost been at the gate, why did they have to go back, his heart still pounding.

_Come with me._

Somehow he had known. Somehow he had heard. And he was coming.

They could be together.

All three of them could be. He and his two friends.

Everything was changing. But he didn’t have to be alone.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

He was on the cusp of eighteen when Ogiwara died for the first time.

In the same devastating training accident that killed him and three other trainees, Midorima nearly lost his hand. It ended up, instead, more scar tissue than skin, still limber only by the skill of the surgeons and his dedication to his physical therapy.

He hated the stares so he began taping his fingers, where the worst of the scarring was.

“I don’t get why it bothers you, Shin-chan,” Takao said to him one night, sitting next to him on his bunk instead of climbing up into his own. Their roommates, Atsushi and Akashi, were already fast asleep. “It’s just scars. Everyone ends up with some, eventually.”

Midorima had no words to explain himself. He could have lost the hand entirely, but he hadn’t. Maybe he should have, to pay for everything he had done.

“Hey,” Takao said, even softer than before, taking both his hands and holding them close to his chest. “You’re still the same, Shin-chan. Okay?”

“Ogiwara’s not.”

Because they were so close to graduation, to getting their first assignments, and because all of them—including Kuroko—had begged for it, he was now Kuroko’s Auxiliary.

“That’s not your fault.”

_It could have been me._

He wasn’t weak enough to say it, but he was weak enough to think it. Takao seemed to hear anyway.

Takao pressed his lips to first one hand, then the other, the barest of pressures. His heart wouldn’t stop pounding a staccato beat in his chest and he felt flushed with heat. All from that one touch. He shivered involuntarily and Takao held on tighter.

“It’s okay, Shin-chan. It’s all going to be okay. I promise.”

“You can’t promise that.”

“I’ll be your lucky charm.” Even in the dark, he could see his wide smile, how it shook at the edges. He had said it before, on Midorima’s bad days, but those had been grand declarations. Not this, not this softness, not this meaningful.

“That’s ridiculous,” he whispered, parroting his usual words. “You can’t.”

“Watch me.”

Takao slept side-by-side with him that night, and many nights after.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

He finally had his eye surgery, right before graduation. Takao insisted on going with him, which he had expected but still put up a cursory resistance too.

When he presented him with a pair of goggles, he was unbearably grateful.

“You’ll need them in Research,” he said when Midorima tried to give them back. “It’s your graduation present. Just take ‘em.”

He hung them around his neck. The weight was unfamiliar and distracting.

“Where are you going?” Midorima blurted out, still warm and fuzzy from the drugs that had put him under. The world swayed momentarily and Takao offered his shoulder for balance as they made the trek back to their shared room. “You’ve never said.”

Takao laughed, the sound echoing in the hallway until it sounded like he was all around him.

“Isn’t it obvious, Shin-chan? I said I was coming with you, back then. I meant it.”

Something delicate fluttered inside his chest.

“Research.”

“Research. Can’t let you have all the fun without me!”

Midorima lectured him the whole way back on the importance of the work done in Research, the gravity of being part of the Fleet. Takao listened with a fond sort of exasperation, but Midorima kept barreling on—if he kept talking about this, he wouldn’t be tempted to talk about other things. Like how soft Takao’s hair looked, how he liked being able to see him so clearly without the barrier of his glasses between him.

He was eighteen when he fell, irrevocably, in love.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

He was twenty, a fully-fledged officer, when he heard of Ogiwara’s death—his final death.

He could offer no comfort to Kuroko, but that didn’t stop him from trying. He sent him a short message, about how it wasn’t it his fault, that Ogiwara could finally rest in peace now; he had never adjusted to being an Auxiliary.

And it was only later, when Takao took his hands and begged him to stop crying, that he became aware of his tears.

“I know you’re close to Kuroko. And I’m sorry. But please, it’s been hours. I can’t take it.”

“I’m sorry,” he said stiffly, jerking his hands from Takao’s grasp. Midorima never intended to be a nuisance. All he could see was the thin, disapproving line of his father’s mouth. He only hoped the rest of the officers hadn’t noticed, or at least wouldn’t bring it up to him.

“No, that’s not…” Takao sighed, running a hand through his hair, dragging his chair closer. “I can’t take seeing you in this much pain.”

Pain? The pain was there, true. His heart ached with it. He rubbed absently at his face, wiping away the wet tracks. Midorima had never known Ogiwara as well as Kuroko did, but he had been a bright, kind soul.

The scars on his hand twinged beneath their wrappings.

_It could have been me._

_It should have been me._

“Shintarou,” Takao said sharply, standing and dragging him into a rough embrace. “Don’t you dare blame yourself for this, too. Don’t you  _dare_.”

“I’m not,” he said into his chest. There was no one else in the room, so he let himself collapse against him, drawing strength from his familiar warmth.  _Just one minute_ , he told himself.  _One minute, and I’ll be fine again_. Midorima’s arms, feeling weak, came up and hugged him back.

Takao choked out a laugh.

“You know, you’re a real shitty liar, right, Shin-chan?”

“I’m not lying,” he said again, not even believing it himself.

“You weren’t even there, how can you possibly—” he cut himself off with a sharp inhale, holding onto him even tighter. “Oh,” he breathed, heartbreakingly sad, “Shin-chan, you can’t mean that.”

“I didn’t say anything—”

“When have you ever had to?” Takao’s hand fumbled, grabbing hold of Midorima’s bandaged hand. The same hand damaged in the accident that cost Ogiwara his first life, his real, human life. “I should have realized earlier. I’m sorry.”

Midorima couldn’t find any words so he just held on.

Takao refused to leave him that night. Midorima didn’t have the strength nor the desire to push him away when he felt so lost.

“Can you sleep?” Takao whispered in the dark from beside him. The bed was larger than what they were given as trainees but somehow their legs and arms still touched. Maybe they were just still growing.

“No,” he said back. He waited, expectant, for him to insist they go play basketball in one of the training rooms so he could remind him it was after-hours before tagging along anyway, but the offer never came.

Takao wormed his way closer, propping himself up on one elbow and hovering above him. Midorima’s breath caught in his throat. With his eyes as they were, he could pick out the minute details of his face, even in the dark. The crease of his brow, the slightly parted lips, the piercing, intent gaze.

Maybe he, too, could see.

Their first kiss was a question, a soft meeting of chapped lips that ended as soon as it began.

“Tell me this is okay,” Takao said, and his voice shook. Midorima didn’t know what to say. How to react. He reached up with trembling hands and touched Takao’s face. Because it was there, because he wanted to.

Takao shivered.

“I need to hear you say it,” he said, lower, rougher.

“It’s okay.”

It must have been the right answer, because their second kiss was longer, sweeter, more warm.

Midorima didn’t ever want to let go.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It was another year before he said those damning three words.

He had intended the moment to be premeditated, but it came over him all at once.

“Stop moving, Takao,” he scolded, placing a steadying hand on his chest to keep him from squirming around the bed. “Your wounds won’t be fully closed for another hour.”

“It itches. Why do I always forget how much it  _itches_?” he groused, falling obediently limp. Midorima moved his hand away and went back to scrolling through his mail at his bedside. The distraction kept him from dwelling on how if the cut had been just a little bit deeper, Takao very well may not have survived.

“Anything interesting?” he asked, fingers tapping a soft beat on the mattress.

“Kuroko is being moved from planet-side duties,” he said after a moment, scanning over the words for the second time. “He’s being given an outdated Auxiliary.”

Takao let out a questioning hum. “What for?”

Midorima shook his head. He couldn’t think of any particular reason. “I’ll find out,” he said, more to himself than to Takao, even though the other man made a noise of agreement. He looked up again, frowning at all Takao’s fidgeting. “Stop moving. Your wounds—”

“I’ll be fine, Shin-chan.” He made a great show of rolling his eyes. He was paler than normal from blood loss, the shadows under his eyes more pronounced. “I’ve got the best medic in the galaxy looking after me.”

“First Officer Kimura is competent, but I wouldn’t go so far as that.”

“You, Shin-chan. I’m talking about you,” Takao sighed. Midorima tensed, fingers curling tight around the edges of his datapad.

“I’m not a medic,” he said, harsher than he intended. Takao didn’t even flinch, a small smile flitting across his face.

“You may as well be. You’re good at it. Taking care of people.” He laughed, then winced, waving aside Midorima as he started to get to his feet. “For all that you make a fuss about it, you really are. Sure you didn’t miss your calling?”

Midorima’s throat was tight.

“I belong in Research. That’s where my skills lie.”

“The way you work, you could do anything, you realize that? You don’t have to paint yourself inside the Research box.”

“I never considered it as painting myself in.” Midorima set aside the datapad before it could break in his hands, frustration bubbling inside him. “Research demands a certain set of skills that I happen to excel at, that’s all.”

Takao’s smile was stiff. It didn’t reach his eyes. “Ah, there’s my Shin-chan’s famous confidence. Sure you didn’t pick it so you didn’t have to be guilty about leaving me behind?”

“Takao!” Midorima snapped, frustration finally building to anger. “What are you trying to say?”

“I’m saying it’s like you to make the sacrifice move—”

“Is that what you really think of us? That I’m  _sacrificing_ something to stay with you?”

Takao swallowed hard, not looking away. “You’re the genius, Shin-chan. You’re the damn bright shining star. I’m just riffraff, always have been.”

Midorima closed his eyes briefly. When he opened them, Takao was chewing on his lower lip, eyes boring holes into the ceiling.

“I will not accept such weak-willed comments from you,” he said, low and hard. “So shut up about sacrifices and stars. I’m here because I want to be. I chose Research. I chose you. Accept that.”

The declaration made a hot flush rise up his neck, but it needed to be said. Takao still was staring at the ceiling instead of him, and Midorima was aggravated by it. He stood, leaning over the bed so he had nowhere else to look but  _him._

“Don’t make me say it again,” Midorima said. “Because I won’t.”

Takao offered up a weak smile, gaze flitting over Midorima’s face. “Sorry, Shin-chan. I just feel like I’ll always be chasing after you. It’s tiring, you know? No matter how hard I work, you manage to work even harder.”

Chasing? Was he forgetting that Midorima spent nearly his entire youth chasing after _him?_

“You’ll keep up with me,” Midorima said simply. He always had. That was why they worked. Takao challenged him, dared him to do better. To improve, to evolve in ways he had never imagined trying.

“You don’t know what you’re asking.”

“I do.” Midorima leaned away, taking his seat. “And I’m not asking.”

Takao let out a short burst of laughter then groaned, curling his arms protectively around his wounded abdomen.

 “You’re really something else, Shin-chan.”

He was only himself.

Midorima waited until the painkillers finally dragged Takao into sleep, then took his hand, gazing pensively at their intertwined fingers; his own scarred and bandaged ones, Takao’s slender, calloused ones.

His heart seized at the thought of being alone once more. Of losing him. _It’s tiring._

“Come with me,” he said softly, squeezing those fingers tight.

“Where’re we going?” Takao slurred out. Midorima flinched and tried to pull away, but Takao held firm. His grey eyes fluttered open, ever so briefly and he smiled. “Mm, doesn’t matter I guess. Wherever you go, I’ll follow.”

Takao’s eyes slid closed.

“Do you promise?” Midorima whispered, but he was already gone, truly asleep this time.

When he next awoke, fully healed and bursting with his usual energy, Takao acted like the conversation had never happened. The willfulness of it both comforted and irked Midorima—it meant Takao was back to normal. But it also meant that beneath everything, he had an inferiority complex when it came to Midorima.

For Midorima, who considered themselves equals, nothing was more disturbing.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“I did some research into this Kiyoshi Teppei,” Midorima said. Takao looked up from his comfortable sprawl on Midorima’s bed. Their rooms were conveniently located next to each other, so Takao spent most of his time in Midorima’s.

“And?”

“He was an assassin. The government’s dog.”

Takao hummed. “And now?”

“Now he’s Kuroko’s Auxiliary.”

“What does Command have to gain from that?” Takao sat up, scratching at his head and blowing the strands of his hair out of his face.

“I intend to find out.”

“You and me both, Shin-chan.”

Midorima nodded. “I would value your assistance.” It made Takao laugh.

“You just lead the way, Shin-chan. I’ll be there.”

Midorima set aside his datapad, trying to thinking of a delicate way to say his next words.

“I know you’re still involved in the blackmarket,” he said instead. Takao flinched, looking up at him with a blank expression. “I know you never stopped, even during training school.”

“And?” The flatness to his tone was chilling.

“And some of your connections may come in handy. We need all the information we can get.”

Takao threw himself back on the bed with a sigh. “Should’a figured you knew. So what now? You won’t report me so long as I be a good boy and work for you?”

“Takao, you have never been,” he hesitated slightly, nose wrinkling, “a good boy.”

Takao laughed and laughed. “Ain’t that the truth! Gods, hearing you say that though, Shin-chan—”

“I don’t appreciate your mockery—”

“Tell me, Shin-chan, have I been a _bad boy_ then?” he kept laughing.

“Please stop.” He pinched the bridge of his nose, wondering how a simple request that Takao help in any way possible had turned into this farce. “This is serious. Kuroko could be in danger.”

“Kuroko can handle himself. Don’t worry so much.” He stood abruptly, padding over to Midorima’s side and leaning on his shoulders, bringing their faces—as they were so rarely—to an even height. “I’ll do whatever I can to help. I promise.”

Midorima felt better for hearing those words. He shrugged off Takao’s touch.

“Thank you. Now if you don’t mind, I have reports to finished—”

Takao sighed. “That’s why I love you. My workaholic Shin-chan.”

Midorima froze.

Absolute stillness enveloped him.

Takao reached out and ran his finger along the shell of one ear, the simple touch making him shiver all the way down to his bones.

“What d’you say, Shin-chan,” Takao said, very soft, very vulnerable, “I think we can take on all the stars in the world together.”

“That’s ridiculous,” he said, voice tight and thin.

Takao sighed, pressed a kiss to his temple.

“Don’t worry. Whatever your answer, I won’t leave you.”

“Takao.” He grabbed his hand before he could go, swallowed hard. He knew the words he should say. It should have been easy.

Nothing in the world was harder.

“Come with me,” he managed to say, shaking. Takao’s brow furrowed for several moments before the expression cleared in understanding.

He smiled.

“I always said I would.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“What are you thinking about?”

Takao came up behind him, curling his arms around his waist and pressing his head between Midorima’s shoulder blades.

“I’m working,” Midorima objected, adjusting his hold until he could reach the keys from a more satisfactory angle.

“Barely. Something’s off.”

“Us,” he admitted, flushing.

“What a rare thing! You’ll make me melt, Shin-chan.” Takao rubbed his head a few times against his back before letting go and taking a seat next to him. “What brought this on?”

Takao knew very well what had brought it on. Midorima’s eyes flicked towards the Med Bay doors, where the abomination he had created lay sleeping. Kuroko’s and Kiyoshi’s mind, all crammed into one body. He shouldn’t have done it but he couldn’t let Kuroko go. He just…couldn’t.

They could survive the strain, if anyone could. He had seen Kiyoshi and Kuroko together enough times to know what they had was special. They were connected on some level most people could never dream of feeling.

It made him wonder, if it was him and Takao, if they could beat the odds. Beat back the madness that was sure to come.

“Hey,” Takao nudged him with his foot. “You did a good thing with them.”

“Did I?”

Takao shrugged, but didn’t drop his gaze. “You did what felt right, didn’t you? Nobody can ask for more than that.”

Midorima looked away, to the safety of the glowing screen. He had his doubts.

“C’mon, let’s go play a game. Just you and me.”

“The others will catch wind and want to join.”

“Yeah. I wanna see how many shots you can get off before they do,” he said with a cheeky grin. “Wanna bet on it?”

Midorima snorted softly but closed down the program, reaching up to touch his goggles.

“I don’t make bets.”

“Yeah, I know, Shin-chan. Come with me?”

As if he could ever bear to watch him leave without him.

As if they both didn’t know what those words meant.

“Of course.”

Midorima stood and walked with Takao, side-by-side. And if their fingers brushed every so often, neither of them said anything about; if both their thoughts were with Kuroko and Kiyoshi instead of on the game, neither of them mentioned it.

Everything was changing, all over again.

“Shin-chan,” Takao grabbed his hand, squeezing tight before letting go. “I love you, you know that?”

“I know.”

“Just, seeing those two, it makes me feel like I should tell you.”

Midorima understood the feeling.

“I, too,” he started, then nearly choked on the phrase. “Feel the same,” he finished.

Takao laughed but the sound was soft and intimate.

“I know, Shin-chan, I know. You’re my damn bright shining star.”

“I am no such thing.”

Takao moved on ahead with another laugh. Midorima let the smile that threatened to take over his face to stretch his lips. Takao couldn’t see, but surely he knew.

When had he ever not?

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally much longer, but I made the executive decision to cut it down to a more manageable size ahaha. Thanks for reading!


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